


The Picture

by celtic7irish



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2233575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celtic7irish/pseuds/celtic7irish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most days, Tony didn’t even really notice the picture anymore.  It was just there, like his bed, or the lamp by the armchair that Tony couldn’t remember the color of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Picture

**Author's Note:**

> I was re-watching Iron Man, and saw the scene where the soldier was getting a picture taken with Tony Stark, just before they were attacked. And this was born. I make no apologies.

There’s a picture hanging on the mirror in Tony Stark’s bedroom.  In it is a younger, callous Tony and a fresh-faced soldier, hero worship suffusing his expression.  The picture is a bit shaky, taken while driving, just before everything had gone to hell.  The cameraman had been wiped out.  The driver, the soldier.  And Tony Stark?  He had died, as well.  In his stead came a haunted, determined, desperate man; one who was determined to undo the wrongs that had been committed by terrorists wielding his weapons.

 

Nobody who knew of Tony’s past, of what had happened in that foreign country filled with sand and caves, had ever asked Tony about the young man holding up a peace sign, a symbol of assured victory, of confidence and a belief that the war would yet be won.  It had been what they were fighting for, there; for peace in a country that wasn’t even their own.  And Tony Stark had been the one providing their enemies with weapons to destroy them.

 

It didn’t matter that it had been Obadiah Stane performing the actual transactions; what mattered was that those weapons were Stark Industries weapons, designed and improved by two generations of Starks.  Anything that happened with those weapons rested firmly on Tony’s shoulders.

 

Most days, Tony didn’t even really notice the picture anymore.  It was just there, like his bed, or the lamp by the armchair that Tony couldn’t remember the color of.  Some nights, he doesn’t even make it up to his bedroom, sleeping in the lounge, or in the lab, only to startle awake to the imaginary sound of gunfire and bombs and never-ending screams.

 

So it comes as a surprise the first time somebody asks him about it.  Tony had, stupidly, allowed a simple cold to turn into the flu, and now pneumonia was a serious concern.  Seeing as that he could die from it, Pepper had insisted that he see a doctor.  Tony had refused, adamantly, so Pepper had compromised.  She had called in Bruce Banner.

 

The man had actually been in the States at the time, attending some conference in Wisconsin.  Still, it must’ve been somewhat of a surprise to find himself being picked up by a private Stark Industries jet and flown clear down to Malibu to tend to a sick, stubborn billionaire.  But he hadn’t complained, not once.  Just taken in Tony’s symptoms, prescribed him some medication, liquids, and plenty of rest.  And then, he had stayed.

 

Tony still didn’t know if it had been Pepper’s idea, or if Bruce had chosen to stay on his own, but he found that he didn’t mind having the other man here, in his home.  Bruce was quiet and unassuming, and when Tony got restless, he served as an excellent distraction, willing to talk with Tony for hours about biology or physics or even engineering, though that consisted mostly of Tony talking and Bruce asking clever questions.  Still, it was better than having to suffer in complete and utter boredom, and Tony was grateful for it.  Even if he did whine and complain most of the time he was on bed rest.

 

After a rough night of coughing and dry heaving, the arc reactor heavy in his chest, compressing his lungs, Tony had woken up – feeling significantly better – to see Bruce staring at the mirror.  Or rather, at the picture on the mirror.  He must’ve made some sort of noise, because the other man glanced over at him.  “Feeling better?” Bruce asked, gesturing towards the bedside table where a glass of water sat.  Tony reached for the water and took a few sips to wet his dry throat, then nodded.  Bruce smiled, then turned back to the picture.

 

“When was this?” he asked softly, curiously.  When Tony didn’t answer, he turned to him and offered an apologetic grimace.  “I’m sorry,” he said, obviously not entirely sure what he was apologizing for, but feeling the need to do so anyway.  “It’s just that you don’t normally have pictures hanging around here.  So I thought that this one was special, somehow.”  Which meant that at some point while Tony had been sleeping, Bruce had wandered the house thoroughly enough to know that Tony didn’t hang portraits or anything.  Just artwork, mostly.  Tony didn’t feel as uncomfortable with that knowledge as he had thought he might.  Bruce wasn’t exactly a stranger, after all.

 

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine,” he said softly, then patted the bed next to him in invitation.  Bruce followed his wordless request and sat down next to him, his expression open and interested.  Taking a deep breath, Tony started talking.  He stumbled on occasion, but Bruce was patient, offering soft noises of encouragement, or a gentle touch against his knee or elbow, supportive while Tony talked about his past, about war and death and soldiers that had died too damn young, about shrapnel and pain, about a man in a cave and terrorists and drowning, about the first reactor and the first suit, about everything.  And Bruce just listened.

 

Tony was surprised to find that he was crying when he finished, his head resting against Bruce’s shoulder as the other man held him carefully, one hand curled against the back of his head, the other rubbing soothing patterns on his back.  Tony shuddered with his next breath, the tears slowing until they stopped altogether. 

 

When he was ready, he shifted, and Bruce let him go.  Warm brown eyes met his, and Bruce smiled sympathetically.  He didn’t offer Tony any platitudes, or try to tell him that he was keeping the picture only to punish himself.  Nor did he tell Tony that the soldiers’ deaths weren’t his fault.  Instead, he just smiled, and said, “Thank you for telling me, Tony.”

 

Tony offered him a weak, watery smile in return.  “Not a problem, Bruce.  Thanks for listening.”

 

And if the picture disappeared the next day, buried in a box somewhere in the far reaches of Tony’s closet, well.  Nobody had to know.


End file.
